


Neck of Gold & Heart of Stars

by pretentiousashell



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Olympics, F/F, Family Drama, IDIC (Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sports Will Happen, background Spirk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-19 09:33:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13701762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pretentiousashell/pseuds/pretentiousashell
Summary: There was Michael, rejected from her first dream—her first love, found in the stars—and scrambling to protect her next dream—her second love, found in the rush of blood in her veins and bruises on her skin.There was Michael,winning.She was here at the Federation’s Twenty-Second Olympics, and she was wearing the red robes of Vulcan, and she may have even belonged here.





	1. 1.0

**Author's Note:**

> Me at 2AM: what if the star trek crew instead of being nerd gays were JOCK gays

When Michael was eight, she researched the cultural differences in the development of athletics on several planets.

She found that, on Earth, humans cultivated athletics as a mode to hone their bodies as a tool. This transitioned into a culture of fervent competition to an almost religious degree. Sport was a critical foundation in the bricks of human society. Athletes on Earth were even considered celebrities.

On Vulcan, however, athletics was a throbbing reminder of their vicious and bloody history. In order to allow the training of their bodies to continue, two divergent schools of athletes emerged. The first used tradition like a cloak and shield, practicing their craft in the name of history and respect to what may have been had Surak’s teachings never arose. The second justified dedication to sport with cold logic, leaning heavily on the mantle of self-improvement and their skills’ practicality.

Michael also delved into the cultures of Andorians, Klingons, and Orions, but she remained fascinated by the contrast between humans and Vulcans.

When she was ten, she asked to be trained in _Suus Mahna_. Sarek consented on the condition that she and Spock learn together.

“Your form is exemplary,” their instructor, a woman named T’Mehk, said tonelessly after several weeks of the exhilarating rush of her pulse pounding in her ears. Michael lifted her chin, trying not to show how she glowed with pride. “It is unfortunate that you will never be able to successfully master the art.”

Michael went still. Her posture did not wilt. Her expression did not falter. “Elaborate,” she said, and her voice was quiet but calm.

“Your human differences place a certain limitation on your full training. For instance, you will never be able to master the nerve pinch.”

“Is there, perhaps, a human alternative that she could practice instead?” Spock asked from her side.

T’Mehk’s eyes became brighter with the spark of ideas. “Indeed,” she said. “We may substitute human techniques when your physiology limits you.”

Michael nodded, but privately, she wondered if her limits were really limits—maybe the road wasn’t impossible but just difficult.

“This is foolish,” Spock whispered one night when she was thirteen and he was nine, but his eyes glimmered with _possibility_ , and in him Michael saw what could be.

“Perhaps,” she said, rolling her shoulders. “But it would be even more foolish to trust mere conjecture without conducting our own experiments.”

“Logical,” Spock said, pleased that he had a plausible justification for what they were doing. “Let us begin.”

Michael broke barriers.

When she was fifteen and Spock was eleven, they watched the Federation’s Olympics for the first time as an educational curiosity.

“ _Suus Mahna_ is one of the accepted mediums for Interspecies Close-Range Combat,” Michael observed neutrally.

“Yes,” Spock agreed after a pause.

“ICRC is one of my favorite events,” Amanda admitted, ignoring the way that Michael and Spock stared at the Vulcan pair, watching how effectively they fought against two Klingons. “It just really showcases all the ways different species value strength.”

Spock caught Michael’s gaze. They said nothing, but their eyes were alight with _possibility_. Michael felt thirteen years old again, and the anticipation was already burning hot through her veins.

 _Yes_ , she thought, _I will show the galaxy how Vulcans value strength_.

 

* * *

 

 

“The opening ceremony is tonight, in 7.68 hours,” Spock said as they strode briskly into the hotel lobby.

Michael chose not to comment on the obviousness of Spock’s statement because she felt it too—a pulsing anxiety deep in her throat that made her head _buzz_. It was nothing like the rush of a fight, and Michael wanted badly to extinguish it. If she could not ease her own nerves, which seemed likely, perhaps she could attempt to aid Spock. “We should leave two hours early.”

“Adequate.”

Michael surveyed the packed lobby. Gathered here were the most prestigious known athletes in their corner of the galaxy. These people were her competition, her heroes, and her teachers all in a tangled jumble of jealousy and admiration. She took even breaths, and it dawned on her that she had made it here.

Maybe she even _belonged_ here.

“S’chn T’gai Spock and Michael Burnham for check-in,” Michael said to the front desk.

The attendant made an odd expression. “Ah. You’re one of the Vulcan pairs for the ICRC.”

“Indeed,” Spock said in such a bitchy tone that Michael’s lips twitched in amusement.

“This is odd,” the attendant commented. “Mr. Spock, you’re evidently rooming with a Vulcan gymnast named Stonn, but I can’t find your name in the registry, Ms. Burnham.”

Michael’s stomach dropped out from under her. Of course this all had to be some fluke. Of course she didn’t really—

“Oh! That’s _odd_ ,” the attendant exclaimed suddenly, jolting Michael out of her thoughts. “I was just looking at the Vulcan registry. You’ve apparently been paired with a human roommate.” They smiled broadly and presented two sets of room keys. “Mr. Spock, you’re 1713. Ms. Burnham, you’re 608. Good luck!”

They walked away in silence, Michael reeling in an uncomfortable zone between relief that she had a place here and horror that she’d been cast off from her home _again_.

Spock sighed gustily at her side. “It is illogical to house you so far away,” he complained in a neutral tone.

“I agree,” Michael mumbled numbly.

“I wonder whether the error lies with our Vulcan managers or with the hotel’s Orion staff.”

Michael hoped that it was hotel management, but she didn’t have the strength to really believe that. “I don’t know.”

They entered the lobby’s elevator with a handful of other Olympians—a group of humans and Andorians chatting about the journey to Orion.

Michael let herself stop thinking for a breath of a moment, watching the floor number change in a sort of hypnotic daze. When they reached the sixth floor, she quietly nudged her way outside, not looking back at Spock.

She hefted her small duffle and made her way to 608, already dreading the two-week cohabitation.

Thankfully, she was alone when she opened the door. The rooms were spacious and had the tasteful hint of luxury befitting of Olympians. She catalogued the two wide beds with their plush sheets and carefully placed her bag on the bed closer to the door. The floor-to-ceiling windows showcased a view of the imposing stadium.

Its architecture was opulent, showcasing sculptures that vaguely reminded Michael of gargoyles. They adorned practically every meter of the stadium’s exterior. Michael thought it was rather over-extravagant but acknowledged that her opinion as a Vulcan citizen was not necessarily the most popular one.

Orion had been preparing for this Olympics for the past several years, and it showed in the area’s clear gentrification. Michael could see in the distance, if she squinted, the gaudy buildings begin to collapse into slums. She shook her head against the glass and went to investigate the rest of the hotel room.

The bathroom was similarly large, boasting both a shower and a spa. On the mirror was the contact information for several physicians on staff.

Michael found a smaller area off the bedroom with a replicator and a round table with three seats. She frowned at the implication of company but dismissed the notion.

After she was satisfied with her exploration, she put her clothes into neat stacks in one of the drawers, stowing her empty duffle under her bed.

Michael debated her course of action for the next few hours and settled on stretching and meditation.

It had been three hours when the door opened, and Michael slowly shook herself out of her meditative state, apprehensively watching the entrance for her roommate.

The human woman stepped into view and stumbled to a stop. Michael noted her clothing: the sleeveless form-fitting blue-green uniform worn almost obnoxiously by all the Earth representatives at basically all times. Her bright red hair was knotted into a tight, painful-looking bun, and her muscular arms stood in sharp definition as she shifted her own duffle bag, much larger than Michael’s own.

She looked shocked.

“Oh! I didn’t know I had a roommate! That’s so weird. They never give me a roommate. I have allergies, you know—it’s—it’s a, uh, weird problem to have. I guess it disrupts other people? It’s weird that they’d give me a—” She visibly cut herself off. “You’re wearing the Vulcan uniform.”

Michael arched an eyebrow, not deigning to respond to that.

“Oh my god. I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to assume that you were human—oh god, that was so—”

“I am human,” Michael said, tone clipped.

“You’re—” Any remaining color drained from the woman’s face. “Oh,” she said weakly.

They lapsed into a thoroughly uncomfortable silence. Michael looked down at the deep red of her uniform and found comfort in it.

“I’m Sylvia Tilly,” the woman blurted out. Michael glanced up to see her cringe. “I’m—my name is Sylvia,” she repeated.

Michael resisted the profound urge to shake her head in amazement. This woman—Sylvia—was so utterly and unapologetically _human_. It made something in her gut clench in a way that was almost entirely unpleasant. “Hello, Sylvia,” she said, wry.

Sylvia looked completely embarrassed, but she still flashed a smile and said, “What’s your name?”

“Michael Burnham.”

“Oh! Nice to meet you, Michael. I think I actually read about you in an article the other month. You’re a bit of a celebrity on Earth. The only human to ever compete for the Vulcan Olympic Team.”

Michael wasn’t sure how she was supposed to react to that. “I am not a celebrity on Vulcan,” she said, feeling as though every single word was a fragile step onto an uncertainly frozen lake.

“Does Vulcan have celebrities?” Sylvia asked, finally moving to the other side of the room. She threw her duffle onto her bed and began rifling through it, chattering as she went. “I certainly can’t imagine Vulcans reading gossip magazines. Oh, god, are there Vulcan _memes_?” she giggled to herself, throwing Michael a sheepish look. “Sorry.”

“Vulcan doesn’t have celebrities in the same sense that Earth does. We definitely have individuals with notoriety, mostly groundbreaking scientists and skilled politicians, but there are no holo-stars or famous athletes.” Michael paused, frowning. “And there are no memes.”

Sylvia ducked her head, grinning. “It’s so cool to consider the differences between our cultures. I wish I’d done more research on each planet represented here before I qualified, but…” She trailed off, shrugging. Her arms were _very_ muscular. Michael absently wondered what her Olympic event was. “I’m excited to learn more now that I’m here!”

That was an admirable attitude, Michael supposed. She nodded, not sure what to say. She had never had this problem with Vulcans. Their reactions to what she said weren’t necessarily predictable, but they did always feel familiar, like something re-discovered after forgetting for a long time. Talking to humans always felt like jumping on land-mines and not knowing if the explosion would be good or bad.

Thankfully, she didn’t have to scramble for long. Her PADD chimed, and she picked it up from where she’d laid it down on her bedside table.

 **SPOCK:** Come to room 1713 promptly. Sarek wishes to speak with us together.

Michael closed her eyes for a moment. Saved from one conversational minefield and launched into another.

She rose, grabbing her room key and Olympic badge. Sylvia looked up and blinked at her. “Oh, you’re leaving. Cool. I’ll see you at the opening ceremony, maybe?”

“Maybe,” Michael said. “If not, then later tonight, I presume.”

“Cool. Right. Of course.”

Michael shut the door and let herself breathe.

 

* * *

 

 

Spock was already tense when Michael stepped into his room. Stonn, his roommate, had vacated to speak with his personal physician, so they were alone when Sarek called.

“Spock. Michael,” Sarek said tonelessly through the connection.

“Father,” they said.

“Amanda wishes to impart her high expectations for your success. She is currently in a meeting and expressed her deepest regrets for being unable to join me in this call.”

“Tell her, ‘Thank you’ on our behalf,” Michael said.

“I will.”

“What do you require?” Spock asked, shoulders tight with apprehension.

Sarek looked at him with the sort of sharp disapproval that Spock _loathed_. Michael wanted to shove him to get him to loosen his posture even just a little bit, but she knew she would never.

“I wished to express my satisfaction with your careers,” Sarek said, although the way he said _careers_ with just enough hesitation to be noticeable made Michael bristle. “If you succeed in your event, you will have done a great service to Vulcan.”

Michael furrowed her brows, staring at Sarek intently. His expression was as blank as ever, but something had flashed in his gaze. “You never give sentimental calls,” she said.

Sarek returned her stare, imposing and severe. “No,” he agreed.

There was a tense pause.

“A colleague sent me an article detailing an Orion terrorist group threatening to attack the Olympics,” Sarek finally said. _Be careful_ , he didn’t say. “Do not be foolish,” he did say.

“We are aware of the potential danger of our position,” Spock blatantly lied. Michael said nothing.

“I see,” Sarek said. He squared his shoulders a little bit. “I must depart to another meeting.”

“Goodbye, Sarek,” Michael said as he disconnected.

Spock cast his PADD aside and moved to strategically fiddle with his things so that it looked like he wasn’t fiddling.

“Orion terrorists, huh?” Michael prodded.

Without turning around, Spock said, “Given the suspect nature of Orion politics and trade, it would not be outlandish to prepare for danger.”

Michael didn’t think that Sarek would have called unless the article had been particularly convincing and terrifying—not that he would have been _scared_. “We should take some precaution.”

Spock quickly turned around, and Michael braced herself for an argument. “I fail to see why you defend him with such blind faith when he has been nothing but—”

“I don’t blindly defend _anyone_. If I agree with Sarek, then it is because our arguments frequently align. I would never—”

“He constantly expresses his disappointment in—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

They stared at each other. It was an argument that they had argued before, and they would argue it again, but it was dangerously volatile, and it brought them dangerously closer to the edge of being Vulcan.

“Not today,” Michael said quietly. “Not right now.”

Spock’s features smoothed out, and he straightened. “My mistake. I apologize.”

Michael took a deep breath and nodded. “We should at least research the threat.”

“Alleged threat.”

Michael resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Yes. That.”

Spock nodded and retrieved his PADD, wiping the communication from its history and bringing up several articles on Orion terrorism. He sent half of them to Michael’s PADD.

After an hour of research, Michael concluded that Orion was a very dangerous planet to be hosting the Olympics.

“They’ve been getting serious threats for _months_ ,” Michael whispered, eyes scanning an article fast. “Why were none of us informed?”

“Likely to keep panic low, which is illogical, seeing as Vulcans do not panic,” Spock murmured, not looking away from his own PADD. “I do not doubt the intent of these threats, but I do doubt the amount of danger they pose. Although we should be on guard, I do not believe that we should deliberate extensively on this matter.”

In other words, _Don’t worry_.

“I agree,” Michael said. “This is one of the most publicized events in the galaxy. Security will be difficult to outmaneuver.”

Spock gave a small hum of acknowledgement, and Michael moved to research Olympics security.

The Orion government had commissioned a security team from every representing planet to specialize in their own protection. Michael relaxed at the logic of it, scanning through the credentials of the Vulcan security team—all exemplary.

She put down her PADD.

“The opening ceremony will begin in 2.17 hours,” Spock noted.

“Then, it’s time to get ready.”

 

* * *

 

 

The opening ceremony was as bold and extravagant as the stadium’s architecture. Michael watched, feeling rather absurdly indulgent, as Orion dancers practically painted themselves with fire and wowed the galaxy. As the grandeur of the evening dragged on, Michael attempted to calm her nerves by examining the other teams as closely as she could manage, which was not very closely, as they were separated into their own sections of the enormous stadium.

She tried not to think of the road she’d taken to get to this moment, but the flood of memories plagued her in flashes.

There was T’Mehk, stern but instructive, giving her the tools to make her body a weapon.

There was Spock, agreeing to conquer the impossible with her.

There was Michael, trying and failing and _succeeding_ to conquer the impossible.

There was Michael, unable to make every impossible thing possible.

There was Michael, in spite of her inadequacies, rising in status among Vulcan’s athletes.

There was Michael, rejected from her first dream—her first love, found in the stars—and scrambling to protect her next dream—her second love, found in the rush of blood in her veins and bruises on her skin.

There was Michael, _winning_.

She was here at the Federation’s Twenty-Second Olympics, and she was wearing the red robes of Vulcan, and she may have even belonged here.

When she had been sixteen years old, she had finally understood that she would never master the nerve pinch. It had only taken six years, and the acceptance of impossibility ached like a phaser wound even now.

But her greatest weakness had not been enough to shackle her to the sands of Vulcan.

Spock cast a look at her, eyebrows high on his forehead in reaction to a particularly suggestive dance move, and Michael allowed herself to quirk the suggestion of a smile. Spock’s eyes, bright with amusement, returned to the ceremony.

If Michael had to master the nerve pinch, rise above her father’s disappointment, take down an Orion terrorist group, and tear apart the universe to win gold, she would.

The impossible would not claim ownership of her ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UP NEXT: stick around to see me make up all the rules for ICRC as I go and also sylvia trying really hard to get michael to like her


	2. 2.0

Michael sat on Spock’s bed, scrolling through the trending news stories of the day while she waited for Spock to be ready for a day of training.

They didn’t have their first event for another two days, which Michael thought was much more nerve-wracking than an immediate start. She and Spock would have to be careful to keep their practice light enough to not exhaust themselves but intense enough to keep them prepared.

Spock finally emerged from his bathroom with a poignant air of irritation. “It seems that Stonn has mistakenly appropriated my gloves.”

Michael frowned, looking down at her own gloves. They were thin and flexible but incredibly durable, and they prevented uncomfortable contact for Vulcans during contact-heavy sports such as ICRC. Spock would not fight without them. “Where is he?”

“Gymnasium Six.”

They made for the area with appropriate haste, and Michael focused on internally checking the tension in her muscles. It had not been a full year since Sarek had tried to convince her to switch to gymnastics, but the remnants of the argument still echoed in her head.

While Spock stalked off to talk to Stonn, Michael watched the different gymnastics teams warm up. She supposed that the way their bodies moved was admirable, but all she felt was a disquieting sense of how _different_ it was from _Suus Mahna_.

She sighed and moved to turn around but collided with another body midway through the movement.

“I’m so sorry—” “My apologies—”

Michael bent down to help the man—evidently an athlete from Earth, judging by his clothes—pick up some sort of toolkit.

“Thanks,” the man said, flashing a sardonic smile.

Michael frowned at the toolkit. “You require sutures already?” she asked, mildly perplexed.

The man rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched upwards. “Preventative measures from my partner. He’s a doctor here. He worries.”

“Oh,” Michael said, trying to judge whether or not this was a logical or paranoid move on the doctor’s behalf.

“Paul Stamets. Gymnast.”

“Michael Burnham. ICRC Pairs.”

“You’re not Vulcan,” Paul pointed out, staring at her uniform.

Michael arched an eyebrow. “You are both correct and incorrect. I am human, but my citizenship lies with Vulcan.”

“Huh,” Paul said. “Neat.”

“Indeed,” Michael deadpanned, distantly annoyed.

“Well, good luck. ICRC is my favorite event to watch, so maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Perhaps,” Michael agreed as Paul walked back towards his team. She resisted the urge to shake her head at him.

Earth-raised humans were so _crass_.

Spock materialized at her side. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

 

* * *

 

 

Michael basked in the pleasant buzzing exhaustion that only ever occurred after a fruitful practice. She and Spock took a moment to discuss strategies with their team manager before stepping outside into the balmy Orion air.

“When would you like to eat?” Spock asked.

Michael let out a breath. “Within the next hour.”

Spock nodded in acknowledgement.

“WATCH OUT!” someone shouted, and they turned to see a young human man sprinting towards them like his life depended on it.

They neatly stepped aside to observe the man launch himself at a fence that was easily twice his height. He did not clear the jump, but he grabbed onto the notches of the fence and fluidly swung his body over to the other side. He performed a dainty little twirl upon landing and threw out his arms. “Ta-da!”

“Nice one, Jim,” a woman nearby said, rolling her eyes. “Like I haven’t been watching you jump over things for _years_.”

“I’m wounded, Nyota. This was _cool_. You _said_ you didn’t think I could do it. Just admit I’m awesome.”

“You _didn’t_. You couldn’t jump high enough to clear it,” Nyota said, sounding irritated but definitely smiling at the jumper—Jim.

Jim laughed happily. “I’m a _hurdler_. Not one of those high-jump assholes, and you know it.”

Nyota shrugged unrepentantly.

Turning to face Michael and Spock, Jim said, “Sorry about that. You know us disruptive illogical humans.” He leaned against the fence. “I’m Jim Kirk, and this downer is Nyota Uhura. Team Earth.”

Spock stared at him in blank silence, so Michael said, “Michael Burnham and S’chn T’gai Spock. Team Vulcan.”

His eyes lit up. “I think I read about you guys. You do ICRC, right?”

“Indeed,” Michael agreed.

“I do the hundred-meter hurdles,” Jim went on, then jerked his head in the direction of Nyota. “And my grouchy best friend over there is the best tennis player in the universe.”

“Jim,” Nyota groaned. She threw a look at Michael and Spock. “I apologize for him.”

“No need,” Spock said, finally breaking out of his silence. “His level of energy is…fascinating.”

Jim barked a laugh. “Did you just roast me?”

Arching an eyebrow, Spock dryly said, “I have no instrument to produce heat currently on my person.”

“You’re funny,” Jim said. Michael glanced at Spock and saw his eyes alight with pleased smugness.

“Vulcans are not funny,” Spock said archly.

Michael held back a sigh as she watched Jim hide a giggle in his elbow and Spock straighten his shoulders. She glanced at Nyota, who met her gaze and rolled her eyes.

“When is your first event?” Michael asked her politely, stepping aside as Jim and Spock continued to tease each other.

“Tomorrow. Yours?”

“The day after.”

Nyota nodded. “Well, good luck. Team Earth has never really excelled in ICRC, so I’ll probably be cheering for you.”

Michael frowned slightly, resisting the urge to point out that this was impractical, as they had just met. “Thank you,” she said instead. “Good luck to you as well.” The sentiment felt awkward and unnatural.

Nyota offered a wry smile. “Thanks.” She opened her mouth to say something else, but her PADD beeped urgently, and she paused to check the notification. Michael watched Nyota’s expression pull into a frown that made her look older. She looked up to see Michael’s looking at her and shook her head slightly. “More rumors about terrorist threats,” she muttered.

A prickle of unease bolted down Michael’s spine. “Ah.”

“I doubt they’re serious or anything, but it’s better to be informed.”

“Yes.”

She briefly tuned back into Jim and Spock’s conversation, listening to them argue about proper stretching techniques.

“…brief stretching before a race and extensive stretching afterwards,” Jim was saying.

“It is more prudent to stretch _before_ an event. I have several articles to substantiate this fact.”

Jim grinned, leaning against the fence with exaggeratedly loose limbs. “Maybe I’ll have to give you my contact information, then.”

“Your logic is sound.”

“God,” Nyota muttered. “Of course he’d try to seduce the first Vulcan he meets.”

Michael coughed into her fist.

As Spock and Jim exchanged contact information, a woman jogged up to Nyota. “Hey. Coach wants to talk to you.”

“Now?”

“Yeah.”

Nyota shrugged, throwing Michael an apologetic look. “Duty calls. It was nice meeting you, Michael.”

“Likewise.”

Nyota turned towards the fence, calling, “Hey, lover-boy! I’ve gotta run.”

“Aw,” Jim pouted, “We still on for dinner?”

“Probably. I’ll message you.”

“Sweet.”

Michael watched Nyota jog off, feeling a little bit off-kilter. She turned to watch Spock, his body language professional as ever yet clearly indicative of his interest in Jim. She approached him and said, “I must return to my quarters.”

Spock’s gaze sharpened when he turned to her. “Are you well?”

“Yes.”

He nodded and touched her wrist. _We will eat later_ , he projected.

_Perhaps_ , Michael thought back wryly, and Spock flushed slightly. _Enjoy yourself, brother_.

_I do not—_ Spock thought, but Michael stepped away neatly before he finished his thought. She offered the ta’al before continuing towards her room.

When she returned, Sylvia was rummaging through the closet, a human perched on the edge of her bed and watching with a fondly exasperated smile.

“Hey, Michael!” she said when she saw her. “How’s your day been?”

“Satisfactory,” Michael said, warily examining the stranger.

“This is Ash. We met on the starship here, and he’s my new best friend. He’s so cool. He’s on the rowing team.”

“It’s _crew_ , Sylvia.”

Sylvia waved a hand. “Yeah.”

Ash shrugged at Michael and said, “Sorry for intruding on your space.”

“No need for apologies,” Michael said.

“Are you coming to the party tonight?” he asked.

Michael stared at him blankly. “Party?”

Sylvia turned completely away from the closet and grinned. “It’s going to be crazy. _Everyone’s_ invited. You should definitely come.”

Michael shifted uncertainly. She had never been to a party and failed to see the practicality behind them. What would she even _do_ there? “I don’t…”

“Parties aren’t super Vulcan,” Ash interjected, looking at Sylvia. “Don’t make her uncomfortable.”

Michael frowned. “I am not uncomfortable.”

Sylvia eyed her with interest. “I feel like Vulcans have parties.”

“We do not.” At least in the human sense. Of course, Vulcans had mechanisms for socialization, but Michael had seen human holo-vids. There was a vast cultural difference, here.

“Well, if you come, we could totally be your tour guides to the party experience. It’s obviously not gonna be a primarily human party. I bet there’ll be more Orions and Klingons there than us.”

Ash nodded sagely. “Klingon parties are _lit_ ,” he said somberly.

Michael hesitated. Would it be neglectful of her to avoid such a profoundly multicultural experience? She considered IDIC and her responsibility as a Vulcan citizen to learn and accept others. This party could be a remarkable platform for understanding differing species’ approaches to leisure. If she approached it as an anthropologist—her chosen discipline before _Suus Mahna_ became the blood in her veins—maybe she could learn something valuable.

Plus, she doubted Spock would be joining her for dinner.

“Perhaps,” she said slowly.

Sylvia’s eyes lit up while Ash stared in surprise as if she had given an enthusiastically affirmative response. “Oh, that’s great! Awesome! Wow, okay. Do you have something to wear?”

Michael glanced down at her training gear, considering the robes tucked neatly into her drawer. “Is there a dress code?”

Ash laughed. “Sylvia has been debating what to wear for an hour. I wouldn’t ask her.”

“Oh, hush. You clearly put some considerable thought into your outfit.”

Ash shrugged. “At least I didn’t put it off to the last minute.”

Michael watched them banter, mildly fascinated. She could even just observe these two all night and learn something.

“Let me see what you brought,” Ash said to Michael, breaking her from her observational standpoint.

Michael opened her single drawer of clothes and allowed Ash to sift through them, Sylvia watching intently at his side.

“Oh. This,” Ash declared, lifting up a set of robes that Michael had packed only because Spock insisted that they would serve her well.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhh,” Sylvia said, eyes lighting. “Can you try it on for us?”

“I—okay,” Michael agreed, slightly taken aback by their enthusiasm.

She took the robes into the bathroom and took a quick sonic shower. After she had dressed, she stared at her reflection for a moment, trying to see what Ash, Sylvia, and Spock had seen. The outfit was stylishly asymmetric, sleeveless only on the left side. A dark, glossy belt tied snugly around her waist and left the lower two thirds of the robes loose around her legs. She supposed it could be considered flattering.

Stepping outside with some trepidation, she watched Ash nod decisively in satisfaction. Sylvia blinked at her a few times before breaking into a wide smile. “This is it. Definitely.”

“You should listen to me more often,” Ash said to Sylvia.

“Oh, hush. I listen to you plenty often.”

Uncertainly, Michael glanced down at herself. “This is appropriate for a party?”

Sylvia waved her hand. “Well, of course other cultures are gonna wear other types of clothes—” (“She means skimpier,” Ash coughed into his hand.) “—but the Olympics is about celebrating our differences. And Vulcans look just as hot in their robes as Orions do in lingerie.”

“Oh,” Michael said, feeling her face heat uncomfortably. She was unsure if this was meant to be complimentary or not.

Ash rolled his eyes. “Help me tell Sylvia what to wear?” he offered.

“Alright,” Michael said warily.

In the following hour, Sylvia tried on several outfits, and Ash offered his opinion while Michael remained mostly silent. In the end, they all agreed that her best option was a glittering tank top over dark, snug-fitting pants.

It was highly flattering for Sylvia’s physique. Michael wondered again what her event was but felt it was an odd moment to ask.

“Party starts in three hours,” Ash said, checking the chronometer. “That means we’ve got time to eat and possibly pregame.”

“Awesome.”

Michael took out her PADD and considered the wording of her message to Spock. Doubtlessly, if he had been present to listen to her reasoning, he would endorse her presence at the party, so she condensed her justification into a brief sentence.

**ME** : I will be attending a party tonight to observe the diversity of the cultures gathered here.

**SPOCK** : Inform me of your conclusions tomorrow.

Michael looked down at the exchange in satisfaction before returning her attention to Ash and Sylvia.

She listened to them argue about which restaurant they wished to visit before Sylvia finally relented to Ash’s choice of authentic Orion cuisine.

“I’m sure they have vegetarian options,” Sylvia said to Michael.

Michael wasn’t so sure, but she said nothing, too surprised by the implicit assumption that she was invited to dinner.

“I’ve gotta get dressed,” Ash declared, groaning as he stood. “Meet in the lobby in twenty minutes?”

“Yep!”

As soon as the door closed, Sylvia turned to Michael. “I’m not being too much, am I? Would you let me know if I was?” she asked, sounding worried.

Michael blinked. “You are not being ‘too much,’” she assured her, not really sure what Sylvia meant by that.

“I know I am sometimes. I talk a lot. I make assumptions.” She laughed nervously. “Tell me if I fuck up?”

“Okay,” Michael agreed.

Sylvia deflated slightly. “Thank you. I want to be better. I want to be…” she trailed off, evidently unsure of how to complete the thought.

Michael understood. She wanted to be better too. “One of the major pillars of Vulcan ideology is IDIC—infinite diversity in infinite combinations.” She hesitated before lightly touching Sylvia’s shoulder, a gesture Amanda often offered for cursory comfort. “I understand.”

Sylvia beamed. The expression was so bright and open that Michael almost had to look away. A moment too late, she realized her hand was still on Sylvia’s shoulder and removed it. “Thank you,” Sylvia said quietly.

Michael felt inordinately flustered, brushing some invisible dust off her robes and clearing her throat lightly. “Dinner?” she prompted.

Sylvia laughed lightly. “Yes. And then we’re gonna get our _party_ on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UP NEXT: Michael gets her party on (logically, of course) and maybe some plot happens.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really have an update schedule planned or a chapter amount in mind yet, but the train has left the station and it is moving!
> 
> Comments and kudos highly appreciated! My disco tumblr is @michaelburnhamfanclub.


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